As Sharp as a Sword
by Ryojin2
Summary: Six months after coming back from Spain and don the mask of Zorro, Don Diego de la Vega faces a new threat. AU, based on Disney Zorro characters though a bit of creativity with the timeline.
1. Chapter 1

It was dark and warm in the forest at the bottom of the rocky hill. It was also silent. So silent that you could hear a... horse breathing on your neck.

The masked caballero, better known by the last letter in the Latin alphabet because of his talent to carve it so neatly on doors and shutters and sometimes on uniforms, rarely on skin though it did happen once, to a dangerous fellow that was then informed, not to say ordered and condemned all at once to retire to life of hermitage, the masked caballero that we will call by his name, Zorro, for the sake of clarity, sent a disapproving glance to his companion, a magnificent black stallion sweating adrenaline and danger by all his pores, the true scion of the goddess Night with Mars.

"Com'on, Tornado, just a couple more minutes. They will come," Zorro whispered in his horse's ear.

Zorro received a sharp nudge on his shoulder for all answer.

"I get it. You're impatient to go and swim in the pond. You're not the only one, mind you. Now be a good boy and-"

Zorro suddenly stopped in the middle of his reproach and smiled. At last, the three thugs that he was waiting for were there, up the dusty road, riding at a fast pace toward the Torres's hacienda. Without hesitation, Zorro jumped on Tornado's back and, valiantly for most of the people, foolishly for those who had the misfortune to not know him yet, blocked their way to deliver them a message.

"Gentlemen, I will offer you one chance to abandon your despicable project," he said with a calm but firm voice as soon as the horses, scared by his sudden appearance on their path, stopped neighing.

Being newcomers in the region, the three thugs fell in the latter category and laughed raucously.

It must be added in their defense that the darkness surrounding the cocky caballero did not help them see that the hand in a black glove held close to a black saddle on a black horse was holding a black whip. Three things happened in a quick sequence: first, their pistols flew out of their hands; second, a sharp crack echoed like a gunshot; third, terror seized them in a tight grasp. Horses neighing, they rode away without further ado, persuaded to have encountered some kind of vengeful demon because even in their superstitiously spiritual minds, no protective angel could be black-clad.

Covered by the sounds of hooves hitting the earth, Zorro's laugh sounded, short but conveying an unmistakable, genuine pleasure. Patting his loyal steed's neck, he then led him down the road toward the hacienda. It was barely past nine and he hoped to catch a glimpse of Elena Torres refreshing herself at her balcony. Sweet Elena made his heart beat faster than any bandido in all Alta California. Even the wild rides on Tornado's back paled in front of her beauty. Maybe not, but it was close enough to be noticed. How could this be possible, he did not know, but he guessed that love had something to do with the matter. What a pity that his feelings were not shared. Of course, he knew that if he approached her in this outfit, she would certainly give him more credit than when he spoke to her with his eyes uncovered. That was annoying, even disappointing to a certain extent, also strangely reassuring, but above all it was necessary. For her safety, she could not hear his real voice, nor she could see his real face.

Here she was, leaning over the guardrail, moving a lace fan in her hand close to her delicate face visible under the moon... A rose in a quiet night that he would never dare to pick, he wished to be a gentle breeze bringing her some peaceful measure to her heart, praying the Lord to allow him a little place in it.

Zorro stayed in a silent communion with her thoughts, time having no essence anymore until Tornado's pragmatism brought him back to reality. Fearing the steed would betray their presence, he surrendered his dream like one make a wish at a shooting star, and led his sweating companion toward the promised refreshment.

It was a little past midnight when they finally both emerged out of the shining waters and made their way to the fox's lair, a series of well-hidden caverns on Alejandro de la Vega's rancho. Feeling the weight of his long day and anticipating the next one with a certain melancholia not that different from the one he felt as a child when the freedom of summer break came to an end, Zorro closed Tornado's pen and walked into the tunnel leading to the hacienda.

Bernardo, his servant and accomplice, woke up at his arrival.

"You have a keen hearing, mi amigo. No matter how hard I try not to make any sound-"

Diego de la Vega stopped talking when he raised his eyes and saw his manservant pressing a finger on his mouth. After a few mimes, the young don felt his heart sinking further. One day early, his father was here. In the sala. He had knocked on his bedroom. Twice. Entered. Twice.

"When did he arrive?"

One hour ago, Bernardo showed on his watch.

"I'd better go down and wish him good night."

Giving one mask to Bernardo and putting on another, the invisible one of the disappointing son, Diego de la Vega turned the iron ring that opened the secret passage to his bedroom and walked out, thinking fast about an alibi for tonight. Illumination had still not revealed itself to him when he opened the entrance door a minute later. Reacting like the fox he was, he then decided to be a pain and flood his father with overwhelming attention.

"O! Father! Don't tell me you traveled at night once again! Have you been stolen? Hurt? Are you not aware of the many thieves of all kinds who roam the roads? He asked, going straight to the fireplace where the old don, sitting in his armchair, seemed to contemplate the empty hearth with a glass of wine in his hand.

"My son! Enough of this! I am perfectly fine," the old don snapped, leaping from his chair and starting to walk back and forth, straighter than Fray Felipe's old stick, the one that so many times fell on his young fingers at school to teach him punctuality among other things. Was it his fault if the rocky hills were bursting with entertainment?

A long sigh called Don Diego back to the present.

"Why do you keep on insisting traveling by night I don't understand! Such foolish risks are you taking. What would I do if by misfortune some ill fate fell upon you!"

"You would have to grow up and become a man! This is what would have to happen. But as I don't fathom this to be possible in the near future, you will feel better to know that I take precautions to preserve my health. I arrived in the late afternoon and spent some time with Don Nacho wishing I had a daughter like Elena to take care of me instead of a son whining about the hardships of life. Where were you by the way?! Certainly not out, scared by your shadow like you are!"

Feeling both hurt and satisfied by this broadside of reproaches but showing only the first, Don Diego straightened and claimed with arrogance:

"I was on the roof. The last safe place for a poet to be at night when he wants to be closer to the stars and the purity of the moon than to the filthy mortals too occupied to drink, copulate or rob one another."

At this, Alejandro realized he was still holding his glass of Xeres and put it down on the small, round table next to him.

"On the roof?! You?! Glad to hear that you are not afraid to break your neck," he said before casting an angry look at his glass.

"To hell with this," he muttered as he grabbed the bottle and filled his glass again. "Perhaps you should drink too sometimes, mi hijo."

The weariness with which his father pronounced those last words worried Don Diego. Time to soften the beast, he thought, now seeing the distress that dug his father's eyes and feeling sincerely concerned.

"You seem irritated by something else than me, Father. What is it that worries you to such extent?"

The old don let out a deep sigh and sat down in his armchair by the fireplace.

"The times are getting darker, my son. Thick, ominous clouds are gathering on the blue horizon, signs of a storm to come."

"And I say I am a poet... though unlike mine, your register seems to tend toward the Apocalypse."

"Everywhere I turn, Diego, I hear rumors, see small things, details of insignificant nature by themselves, but I fear now are part of a bigger scheme meant to... Ah, don't listen to me. I'm just an old fool too afraid to lose his possessions."

"The vultures will appear in the sky before Death comes to reclaim its prize."

"Well, you might have some use after all."

"Are the vultures coming, Father?"

"I don't think he would appreciate being called that way."

"Who, he?"

"A man. A powerful man, Diego. But do not worry, my son. This battle, if it comes, will not fall on your young shoulders. Go now. Wish me buenas noches and go to sleep. I need to be alone to think."

"As you wish, Father. Buenas noches."

Knowing better than to insist, Don Diego walked out of the sala, deeply worried by the news. To whom was his father referring to? Santa Ana? Was his army on its way to conquer what was left of Spain in America? His blood of true Spaniard would flow to defend the king's lands if necessary. With the dreadful knowledge of a hovering threat, he climbed the stairs and despite his exhaustion and desire to obey his father's orders, for once, he failed to find rest until the wee hours.


	2. Chapter 2

The dusty road weaving up the hill toward to the Mission San Gabriel was busy but in a quiet way.

Dedicated to their tasks, peons and frays were working in the vast orchards surrounding the church, pruning the citrus trees, cleaning the gardens where vegetables grew under the warm sun and caring hands. Such a view brought a lot of peace and comfort to Don Diego de la Vega each time his carriage, led by his mute servant Bernardo, left the Camino Real to climb toward the church's grounds, the white bell tower appearing in the distance in the clear blue sky. A beautiful view indeed. One that always had a soothing effect on him. Unfortunately, today was an exception.

Though his head wagged with each jolt and his eyes were closed as if he were deeply asleep, Don Diego was in fact well awake and tense.

Since he had spoken to his father the previous night and learned about this unnamed threat, a gunner's knot was slowly tightening in his guts. But a knot being only as strong as its rope, it was premature to abandon all hope to preserve the peace in California. Don Diego had seen the sun rising on this encouraging thought, but now that the burning star had reached its scorching zenith, he felt the urging need to check with Padre Felipe what news the day had brought from the southern border. Late yesterday evening, he had seen the silhouette of a lonely rider climbing the dusty, weaving road.

Padre Felipe! A good man he was. Peaceful, benevolent, compassionate though firm and awfully precise, as his fingers still remembered the slack of the wooden ruler when younger, he would misbehave during the class. But that was the past, and Padre Felipe did not know resentment. Here he was coming to greet him and Bernardo, a gentle smile on his tanned, old face.

"Don Diego," the padre said, "What matter could be so urgent to prompt you to climb here so early in the afternoon? Come inside to refresh yourself."

After sweeping the grounds for anything out of ordinary and finding nothing to cause worry, Don Diego followed his old teacher and confessor under the shade of the porch and into the mission's main building.

"This is so peaceful, Padre, so beautiful and peaceful."

"Indeed it is, my son. It is for now and will remain like this tomorrow if God wishes it to be."

"But why would God wish otherwise?" Diego asked, noticing the monk's weariness.

"I don't know, Diego. I don't know."

The young don let the silence spread as he entered the small office and sat down in front of the desk, looking down at his hands and feet.

"Come on, Diego," laughed Padre Felipe, "Last time you had such a pitiful expression on your face while sitting in this seat, you were barely nine years old. And you had let the chickens out of their den, if I remember correctly, or was it the time when you had put a Gopher snake in the classroom?"

"Oh, that wasn't me. I'm only responsible for releasing a king snake... in your corridor," Don Diego smirked as the last words came out of his mouth. He should be more careful with the padre or else, the man was going to trick him into revealing some other well-kept and much more important secret!

"After all these years, I'd say it's about time you admitted your fault, Diego," said the monk, his serious frown conveying a fake reproach and a genuine pleasure.

"Well, I'm sorry for all the hard time I gave you, padre. Is it still time to ask for your forgiveness?"

"I forgave you long ago, Diego," replied the monk with a small laugh before his eyes became more serious again. "Now that your soul has been relieved of this sin, tell me what could possibly be troubling your mind. If I can venture a guess, could it be your heart again?"

"Yes, Padre. Again," Don Diego replied, knowing that the padre was referring to his buyoant feelings for Elena.

"Ah. Would you prefer the intimacy of a confessional for such matters?"

"Maybe later, Padre. Maybe later. Tell me, what are the news from San Antonio de Padua instead?"

"Well, nothing worth reporting. Life is as sweet as it is here in Los Angeles."

Don Diego frowned. Padre Felipe did not lie often and only to do some good, to protect a person against evil, or to keep someone's mind at peace, especially if one could do nothing about the situation. But this was where Padre Felipe was wrong.

"However?" Don Diego said, making his gaze insistent.

"Oh, nothing to be afraid of I think. I have an absolute confidence in our King's army to keep the fort."

"Santa Ana."

"Yes, I'm afraid, Diego. The General's troops have been seen maneuvering close to the San Diego's mission. Padre Juan-Miguel de los Atavos asks me in his letter to spread the word to the Missions north of us, just in case. Santa Ana knows that in a month, all California will be aware of his military exercises. And as our garrisons are still loyal to the King and well-manned, Juan-Miguel thinks that he will not dare to push his luck too far if his movements are known."

"Did you send someone to San Luis?"

"Benito left this morning with your father's permission. I gave him six letters so he could go as far north as Santa Barbara. But each mission will dispatch a man. The more riders the better..."

"It feels to me that the situation must be pretty serious, padre."

"Serious, not yet. But tense, certainly. Anyways, better safe than sorry, my son. Now, Diego, I should not have worried your young shoulders with such matters. Why don't we go in a confessional booth so you can relieve your soul of the normal torments that are thankfully still afflicting young people."

"Is it a sin to hope for a genuine smile, Padre?"

"No, it is not, Diego. Impatience is, however."

"I just wished Elena would look at me when I cross her path in the street and convey something more pleasant than disdain," Don Diego explained when a commotion burst outside the padre's open window. As the monk rose to his feet, Diego restrained himself from jumping through the wooden frame, turned on his heels and walked out of the office.

As the monk rose to his feet, Diego restrained himself from jumping through the wooden frame, turned on his heels and walked out of the office.

Outside, he saw the peons gathered around a horse. A man had fallen to the ground. As Diego made his way through the little crowd, he realized that the fact that no one brought the poor soul inside meant that the latter had reached the mission too late. A fear that Diego confirmed soon enough. He was kneeling next to the dead body, killed by a gun shot to his abdomen when the padre's trembling voice sounded:

"Juan-Miguel's messenger... Oh, Lord! Take pity for this poor soul!"

"Where was he heading?" Don Diego asked.

"To San Juan.. he had left with Benito in the wee hours. They were to part ways at the Virgin of the Guadalupe junction. Diego, what if?"

"Do not worry, Padre. Benito is the best rider I've ever known," Diego said as he watched the monk retrieve the letter from the man's jacket. It was soiled by blood but still readable.

"I will bring it to San Juan Capistrano myself, Padre."

"Oh, no. It is too dangerous. No, Diego."

"A single rider is an easy, identifiable target. Especially a stranger. But who would think of a local, good for nothing poet?"

"You might be right. But please, be careful, Diego."

The young don nodded gravely as he accepted the letter and rose to his feet, waving to Bernardo that it was time to go.


	3. Chapter 3

The shadows in the cave were deeper, and under the feeble draft of fresh air filtering through the foliage hiding the entrance, the flickering flames of the few torches hanging on the walls seemed to burn brighter. Deciding that it was now dark enough outside, Don Diego tightened Zorro's black mask on his face and put on his hat. He had one foot already on the stirrup when he felt a hand squeezing his arm. He did not have to look over his shoulder to see Bernardo's worried eyes.

"I'll be prudent," he just said.

His voice came out more grave than he would have wished. But then, the dark red blotch of blood on the letter hidden in his shirt did not call for cheerful times. Nor did Benito's dreadful return in the early evening after he escaped three men who had tried to stop him to carry on his mission. Only chance and the Lord had allowed his head vaquero to get out of the ambush alive, though seriously wounded. Added to the murdered messenger, this had convinced Diego that Santa Ana not only had spies everywhere but spies who had received the order to kill to prevent the Jesuit frays from communicating with one another, raising a logical fear that the army could have been infiltrated or even worse, collaborating with Santa Ana. Those ominous suspicions rendered the task to deliver the letter way too dangerous for his pompous self to accomplish. It was a task better suited to Zorro.

The mute servant waved Don Alejandro's goatee and fine mustache, taking the proud stance of the old caballero.

Diego shrugged and sighed. There was little he could do about his father if his trip to San Juan Capistrano took him more time than anticipated.

"I'll make up something upon my return if needed," he said as Bernardo started to wave again, pointing a finger to his mask before straightening his back like the old don again.

"No, Bernardo. I still wish to keep him out of all this."

Diego knew he might not have a choice one day but to reveal his secret. However, the time was still not right, not safe. Not until he defeated Monastario in a duel or convinced the greedy, authoritarian officer to move to another garrison. And anyway, he pretty much enjoyed watching his father's outbursts against Madrid's decadent wealthy society that he held responsible for his son's lackadaisical, shameful weakness of character, calling the mother country's youth as depraved as the courtiers of France, brave with their tongues, cowards with their swords. Some of them deserved the rant, and none of them more than Eduardo della Nativa del Sol. Such an arrogant, pompous viscount and the utter model for the new Don Diego de la Vega. Not that this strategy served him well with Elena though. On a brighter side, that she disliked him in della Nativa was in some way warming his heart, making him so wish she could have one day the opportunity to show the man the disdain he deserved. What had she told him this very afternoon, upon his return from San Gabriel? Oh yes! that the day she would be seen taking his arm in the pueblo was as likely as to see the comandante kissing an old, leprous goat.

That can be arranged... had he thought on the spot, biting his lips to keep a smirk from his face. That can certainly be arranged...

A hand squeezed Diego's arm and dragged him back to the gravity of the situation.

"Don't worry, Bernardo. I will be back for breakfast," he said, smiling as he felt reinvigorated by the rush of blood and the promise of a good laugh at the expense of this unsavory Monastario. But not now, he might need the capitan to defend the pueblo in case of Santa Ana's ambitions led him this far north in California, at least if Monastario was still loyal to the King.

And on these once again grave thoughts, Diego leaped on Tornado's back and left the cave, welcoming the sight of clouds obscuring the thin moon in the heavens for there was better ally than a threatening storm to keep the sixty miles of rocky hills and plains between him and his destination free of thieves, if not soldiers.

Despite the last days of intermittent wet weather, most of the streams on his way to San Juan Capistrano were still low enough to cross safely even by night, but not all of them were, unfortunately.

Fifteen minutes later, he left the rocky silhouettes of the cliffs behind him and dived toward el Camino Real for the first of the three times where he had no choice, to cross the raging, meandering river, but to use the bridge.

From the heights, he could see a soldier holding a torch in the middle of the wooden structure, but in his late afternoon refreshing break, Sergeant Garcia had reassured him that the pueblo was safe from trouble: Monastario had doubled the guards on el Camino Real.

A confidence that Zorro could confirm a few minutes later as he approached the bridge as silent as a panther stalking its prey. On the left side of the road, a small fire burnt and four soldiers slept by it, but there seemed to be four more, unoccupied mats next to them.

 _Eight rifles then_ , he thought, sending another tense gaze to the sky. But it was unlikely they would all fire, not in the dark. Only the soldiers already on the road would. So four it was, two or three salvos, eight to twelve bullets to dodge.

His last prayer to the Lord to open the sky remained unanswered until now, allowing very little hope he would manage to sneak by unnoticed even if the bridge was large enough to allow two carriages coming from opposite direction to cross together without any risk of collision.

A diversion was in order but these men, if not the best and brightest of the Spanish army, feared their commanding officer enough to show some bravery when needed. They would not leave their position easily.

If he threw the soldier over the guardrail, maybe at least one of his comrades would go to help him out instead of shooting at the aggressor? But if the flow was too dangerous to cross, it was also too dangerous to swim, and risking the man to drown was not an acceptable option. The only one was to risk his own hide.

The army's rifles had a range of two-hundred yards but there was a slight wind playing in his favor that would cut the range to one hundred and fifty yards, one hundred if he was lucky. Tornado was the fastest steed he had ever known, able to leap into a full gallop at his command and ride a hundred yards under ten seconds. That would leave the soldiers the time to shot two or three times before he got out of range, no more. But these men were good shots and the road was straight...

"All right, Tornado. Go on slowly and silent, boy," he whispered to his black stallion, stroking the beast's neck in a soothing gesture.

Careful, Zorro rode to the right side of the road and disappeared under the thick shadow cast by a large clump of eucalyptus trees that grew by the river. His eyes grew accustomed to the deeper darkness and after a couple of minutes, he was able to decipher the silhouette of a guard at the end of the wooden structure. But where were the two others? he could not tell.

In a complete silence, he moved Tornado down toward the river a few steps and stopped just below the first wooden plank to scrutinize the night once more. One soldier was on the other bank. The last one had to be on the left side of the bridge then. Both were out of his immediate reach so he could not easily take them down by hand.

And still no rain to improve his chances of survival. The element of surprise and Tornado's alacrity were his only advantages.

Zorro led his steed back toward the road, retreating half a dozen yards before he made Tornado face the bridge again. Tightening the bridles in one hand, he shortened his stirrups, shifting his position to relieve as much weight as possible on his companion's back, and after a quick prayer, he launched the steed at full speed.

The soldier's cry echoed in the night when he was thrown away as if hit by the fiercest of the North gusts.

A knot tightened Zorro's guts as Tornado swallowed the yards faster than the ocean engulfed the shore at the equinoxes tides.

He was almost out of range when the soldiers' rallying cry reverberated and the first salvo echoed. Unless it was his heart, drumming the fiercest military march in his chest.

Zorro pushed Tornado. _Faster! Faster!_ He thought so hard that he truly believed his loyal companion could hear him when a burning pain suddenly radiated in his left arm.

The jaw clenched, Zorro tightened his grip of the bridles. He could see the curve coming where the road made a nose dive toward the river, the perfect spot to hide though it was not his intention to seek shelter under the great oaks growing on the banks.

As shots now echoed in the quiet night like a firework show's grand finale, Zorro dragged Tornado on the left, leaving el Camino Real to climb and disappear in the rocky hill overhanging the road. Soon enough, the path became so treacherous that even his steed's sixth sense could not offset the risk of a stumble or a fall, forcing him to slow down the pace to a light gallop, and when he considered the danger to lay far behind, to a steady walk until he reached a rocky promontory to stop behind and take a minute to care for his wound. A cold sweat broke on his forehead as he realized how close death had grazed him. Slicing through the space between his left arm and his chest, the bullet had taken a chunk of flesh out of his bicep instead of piercing a hole in his heart.

Tense, he got going again, carefully riding down the arid slope toward the next bridge.

Once again, a dozen shots fractured the peaceful Californian night. Once again, Zorro went through the roadblock, unarmed this time, before disappearing in the dark meadows, disturbing a few cows in his trail.

The wind was carrying a smell of wet earth when he arrived at the third bridge and sighed. Only one carriage could pass and, as he feared, the sentinels were standing in the middle of the way, leaving him with two options: a risky diversion or a two hours detour to reach the place, ten miles farther south of San Juan Capistrano, where the river broke into two large streams.

As he approached a little closer to the bridge, Zorro caught a glimpse of the soldier's face, softly lightened by the lantern placed on a pole. His heart sank as he recognized the youngest recruit. Monasterio had punished him three days ago for allowing a few peons to sell their potteries on the plaza. So this was were the young lad had been ever since, guarding the bridge.

Without hesitation, Zorro then chose the second option, even if it meant that he would not be able to be back to Los Angeles before dawn then and would have to make another, lengthy detour in order to penetrate his father's lands without being seen by the villagers and the soldiers.

It was well past three o'clock in the dead of night when the massive, dark shape of San Juan Capistrano monastery appeared on the horizon. A couple of minutes later, he threw some small rocks on Padre Jorge's shutters on the second floor and howled. Not long after, the garden's door creaked open and a thin silhouette holding a candle light appeared, peeking through the darkness.

"Here, Padre, a letter from Padre Felipe," Zorro whispered, taking the letter out of his shirt and holding it out to the religious man.

"Thank you, my son. God bless you. Come in, come in, take some rest before you go."

"I thank you for your kindness, Padre. Maybe another time."

"But Santa Maria Madre de Dios, there's blood on the letter!"

"The original messenger gave his life to carry on his mission."

"I mean fresh blood..."

Zorro clenched his jaw tight.

One hour later, he waved the good monk farewell as he left the monastery, his arm well cared for. During that time, the Lord had answered his prayer and a thin but steady rain fell from the skies. A helping hand from the heavens that allowed him to take the road without fearing for the soldiers who had retreated under the protection of tarps under the trees and showed less zeal to accomplish their duty. But even if his return to Los Angeles was safe that long night, Zorro felt the tension of the last day increasing several notches.

Santa Ana's spies roamed in each city of Alta California, hidden behind the faces of strangers or the eyes of traitors.


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: Thank you for reading and sorry to be such a slow writer! I hope you enjoy the story :)_

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Chapter 4

The morning after Zorro delivered the letter to San Juan Capistrano, Los Angeles rustled with a lively activity under a cloudy sky. Jovial conversations and tight negotiations rose from the crowded plaza where peons and sellers from as far as Santa Barbara had installed their stands in the wee hours to sell their produce and crafts, livestock and fresh eggs, last fashion clothes and finest embroidery from Spain.

In the street between the tavern and the old apothecary, well hidden from the marketgoers at the back of his carriage, Diego observed through a small opening in the tarp the movements around the florist when Bernardo came back with his arms full of packages.

"Go and buy one red rose," he whispered to his friend.

Bernardo raised a surprised eyebrow which turned into a smile when Diego explained:

"I saw Elena walking toward the porcelain seller with her dueña. Offer her the rose and this from me."

On these words, he took out a thin envelope from his jacket's inner pocket. It was a poem comparing her delicate skin to the flower that would accompany it and the thorns to his pain of being ignored, a self-inflicted wound caused by his desperate lack of grace in her presence and that only her smile could mend.

Reassured to see Bernardo disappearing into the crowd again, Diego leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to ease his pounding heart although this time, Elena was not the cause of his nervous state. Since he arrived at the market, he had noticed two strangers roaming around the stalls while casting regular glances at him. They were not buying anything and moved swiftly away each time the white and blue uniforms of the soldiers appeared in the crowd. That they were up to no good seemed more and more plausible.

This plausibility became a certainty quick enough. Barely a minute after his mute friend had left, the carriage tilted under the weight of a man too heavy to be Bernardo.

Feeling the rush of danger accelerating the flow of blood in his veins, Diego feigned being deeply asleep and let himself being carried away, out of the city, and as he knew all the ways in and out, all the roads and paths, wide or narrow, every corner or clump of trees in a twenty miles radius around Los Angeles and even further, it did not take him long to figure out where they were taking him: the Devil's Baño.

It was a dark pond at the bottom of a ten-foot wide, funnel-shaped hole that had appeared right after the eighteen hundred and twelve's earthquake. No matter how long or harsh the drought would be since that dreadful day, there still had been waters in that hole, waters darker than the despair one can feel at the heart of a hopeless night. As expected, legends had grown and multiplied to give some sense of the place, sense and create fear to keep away the most intrepid child away. Unfortunately, as expected, braving fear was a good reason enough for Diego, as a child, to go there and to throw stones into the pond to see if he could choke the beast living at its bottom. At least, that meant he had an advantage on his kidnappers: he knew the place better than anybody else.

Diego took a deep breath, wondering if letting Santa Ana's men taking him there was a good idea, even if he was still convinced that it was the safest move for Bernardo and for his father because, despite the vaqueros guarding the rancho, Santa Ana's men would have come to him for the letter sooner rather than later. It was a danger that he had brought on himself and as such, it was a danger that he should face alone. And so he was, Diego de la Vega, Los Angeles' useless fop. The pale figure of a caballero that dirt bothered and who sent his manservant in front of him to chase geese and chicken away from his path. They would expect no resistance and so no resistance he would offer.

Fifteen minutes passed and the carriage came to a halt, confirming Diego's guess as to where they were taking him.

"Search him." He heard one of the men say.

Keeping his eyes closed, Diego snored as a pair of hands roughly tapped his pockets. As he turned on his side like a cat disturbed in its sleep would readjust its position, he felt the letter being taken and his purse too. So they planned to feign a robbery.

"I got it! I can't believe he is still sleeping. Let's detach the horse and go."

"Give me the letter."

Diego was forcing himself to stay still when he suddenly felt all his hair stand up on his neck as the creasing of paper revealed that the man had opened the duplicated letter from the frays. Why had the man found it in his left pocket?

"It's a poem, you idiot!"

Shocked to the core by his carelessness, Diego opened his eyes just as Santa Ana's man stretched his arm toward his chest again. For a brief second, their eyes locked in surprise. So much for offering no resistance, Diego thought as his survival instincts kicked in. At once, he jumped forward to seize the bridles, pushing the man to the ground.

Not looking above his shoulder, Diego whipped the horse into motion, though not as fast as he wished in the steep path that winged down the exposed hill. Too soon, he heard the echo of a shot, and another, and... the third one pierced the tarp and sliced the air a mere inch above his head. Taking his chance, he whipped the horse harder to make it go faster. He had almost reached a wider path when the left wheel fell into a hole, emitted a dreadful crack and broke off its axis, sending the carriage in a terrible tumble down the rocky hill.

By the time Diego stopped rolling, he was groggy enough not to realize that he was lying flat on his back and confused enough that he mistook the backlit shadows of his attackers for storm clouds, a curious thing because the earth did not smell damp at all. The sun suddenly reappeared. And disappeared again. Why was the earth moving? It looked like it was upside down... Slowly it came to him that if there was a cloud in the sky he could not tell because he was, in fact, looking down or hanging down, by his feet then, logically, above a black spot of grass.

A cock clicked.

This cleared his foggy mind with more efficiency than the north wind swept the sky above San Francisco Bay, though instead of revealing the island of Alcatraz, the Devil's Baño appeared.

"Where's the letter?"

"Zorro! Zorro took it from my desk yesterday evening!" Diego cried, mentally preparing himself for a dive. He who always wanted to know what lay at the bottom, he was finally going to get an answer. He just hoped that the beast was not a siphon.

"Zorro? Who is he?"

"I don't know. He wears a mask, a black mask over his face. He took the letter, I swear!"

"And where can we find him?"

"I don't know! Ask the soldiers! They're always playing hide and seek in the hills with him."

"But why would this Zorro take the letter?"

"I don't know! Ask him, not me!"

"Then, you are useless to us."

"No! Stop! I... I can... I can try to lead you to him," Diego exclaimed, wondering if he had lost his mind. Well, temporizing was his only way to stay alive longer.

"You just said you didn't know where to find him."

Diego took a deep breath as he felt his body fall and pierce the dark surface of the cold waters. Without hesitation, he dived toward the bottom which was, against all odds, not that deep, barely ten to twelve feet. As bullets struck the space around him, Diego flattened against the wall, praying God to keep him alive. He knew that one minute had already passed and that he could hold his breath for a little over three, but under the circumstances, a bullet was more likely to kill him than asphyxiation so he started to feel the wall with his palms, searching for a hole. Quick enough, he discovered a slight counter-current indicating that the pond was fed by an underground river.

Diego smiled. The opening was a good three-foot wide.

An underground river flowing in the Devil's Bao by a large opening and yet, the current was weak and the pond low. That could mean caves and galleries.

Aware of his limited time, Diego dived and sneaked in the hole. He had not covered three yards that he felt the walls spreading further apart. Heart pounding in his chest, he swam up and up, until his head broke the surface in a pitch-black cavern. His eyes, accustomed to working in such an environment, quickly adjusted as they found a feeble ray of light filtering from the ceiling. His curiosity kicking in, Diego swam around the walls and to his great surprise, found a half-submerged gallery. Treading in cool waters, he made his way, wondering how far he could go and if it led to the surface, where would he arrived. He got the answer an hour later, after walking through a series of dark and greyish caves depending on how much natural light filtered and stepped into one where orange halos danced with the shadows on the walls.

Perplexed, Diego crouched down behind a large boulder and frowned.


End file.
